| She stepped down from her carriage,
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| At Ten Vermillon Street.
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| I took off my roustabout,
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| And slung it at her feet.
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| We went into her parlor,
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| And she cooled me with her fan,
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| But said, «I'll go no further,
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| With a fantasy-makin' man.»
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| I said, «I'd walk on the Ponchatrain,
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| For what you have today.»
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| Just a drink from your deep well,
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| And I’ll be on my way.
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| She laughed and heaven filled the room.
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| Said, «This I give to you,
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| This body’s wisdom is the flesh,
|
| But here’s a thing or two.
|
| «Death and hell are never full.
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| And neither are the eyes of men.
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| Cats can fly from nine stories high.
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| And pigs can see the wind.»
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| She let me make my pallet,
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| In the moonlight on the floor.
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| Just outside of paradise,
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| But right in hell’s back door.
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| The image of her nibbled,
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| At the eye of my soul.
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| My dreams were a hurricane,
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| And quite out of control.
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| Then her voice came through the storm,
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| It’s more than flesh I deal.
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| And you will have to pay,
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| For any wisdom that you steal
|
| I woke to tinted windows,
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| In lavender and red.
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| The first station of the cross,
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| Is just above my head.
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| I awoke to gargoyles,
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| And a hard bench for my bed
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| Jesus Christ and Pontias Pilate,
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| Were just above my head.
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| Death and hell are never full.
|
| And neither are the eyes of men.
|
| Cats can fly from nine stories high.
|
| And pigs can see the wind. |